


Overlapping Brushstrokes

by sospes



Series: Oils on Canvas [3]
Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Artsy Nonsense, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Letters, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29897736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Benedict and Henry have made a life together, agoodlife, full of love and art and the bottomless pit of the Bridgerton family’s affection. They are happy, and nothing in the world can take that happiness from them.But resentment and revenge run deep in theton, and sometimes happily ever after is just the beginning.
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton & Henry Granville, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Henry Granville & Lucy Granville
Series: Oils on Canvas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152809
Comments: 96
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, guys. Here we go again. 
> 
> The usual drill: tags and warnings will be updated with each chapter, and I'm writing this ahead so I'll be posting every two days. This is set post the _Unfinished Sketches_ , so about a decade post- _Oils on Canvas_.

Smoky twilight hangs in the air of the studio, scented with wine and sweat and the distinctive chalky scent of scratched charcoal. It’s late, the partygoers mostly passed out in corners or stumbling out into the sharp, clear November night, and the nude models in the drawing room are beginning to flag, shoulders sagging and gazes squinting into the candlelit gloom. There’s a discarded bottle of vodka balanced on top of a bust of Erato, and the parrot is delicately grooming its feathers, perched on the back of a chair with its claws sunk into the silver-and-blue embroidered fabric. 

“There you are!”

Benedict glances up from a sketchy study of the parrot, his fingers smudged with charcoal and the taste of wine still heavy on his tongue. “Lucy,” he says, crooking her a grin. “Have you been looking for me?”

“ _Henry’s_ been looking for you,” Lucy corrects, her hair unbound, her lipstick smudged and the kohl around her eyes smeared in a way that could equally be accident or intention. “He’s at the door, I think, making sure that Roche actually manages to get his coat on without throwing up in the pockets.”

“A noble occupation,” Benedict says, setting his charcoal down and dusting his fingers off against his thighs. He gets to his feet. “I’ll join him, shall I?” 

“Please do,” Lucy says, accepting his kiss on her cheek and squeezing his forearm lightly. “I look forward to dinner at Grosvenor Square tomorrow night.”

“I’ll see you then,” Benedict answers with a smile, and goes in search of Henry. 

It doesn’t take long to find him – and, true to Lucy’s word, the front door is wide open and Henry is supporting a familiar gangly, grey-haired fellow into his waiting carriage. Benedict leans against the doorframe, arms folded against the chill of the night, and watches with a smirk as Henry pats Roche’s arm reassuringly then closes the carriage door and signals to the driver. They clatter off into the night and Henry turns, steps back towards the house, sees that Benedict is waiting for him, and smiles, broad and tired and happy. “Benedict,” he says, heavy and affectionate. “I could not find you in the drawing room a little while ago. Maybe half an hour?” He grimaces. “I could have used your help with Thomas – he is _rather_ heavy.” 

“You seemed to manage just fine without me,” Benedict says, and steps aside to let Henry back in. “Although I imagine he will have quite the headache in the morning.” 

Henry smirks. “He always does,” he says, closing the door behind him – and in the quiet of the entrance hall, his hand settles on Benedict’s forearm for a stolen moment, squeezes gently. “Share a drink with me, Bridgerton?” he asks, the light in his gaze saying quite clearly that it isn’t a drink that he’s thinking of. “I have a very fine Chardonnay in the parlour.” 

Benedict smiles, teasing and faint. “You are renowned for your Chardonnay selection, Granville,” he says, playing the game, nodding intently. “I would be delighted to sample some of your… collection.” 

Henry’s lips twist a little, purse in fond annoyance, and he drops his touch. “Well then,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “Do come with me.” 

They wind through the emptied corridors of the studio, a discarded shawl here, a discarded _dress_ there which is a little more concerning, but the fire of anticipation is burning in Benedict’s belly, hot coals banked until now, awaiting little more than a breath of air to burst into life. The shadows cast Henry’s face in sharp relief, angled and beautiful, the curling grey in his hair, the wry twist of his lips, and he leads Benedict to the parlour, ushers him inside with all the grace of a good host. 

Benedict props his hands on his hips as Henry shuts the door, locks it. “Mr Granville, I have to say that I am a little confused,” he says, squinting at the empty room. “I was expecting wine. Where is the wine?” 

Henry’s arms snake around his waist, tugging Benedict’s shirt out of his waistband and slipping beneath, his hands warm against the soft skin of his stomach. “I lied, husband,” he whispers, catching Benedict’s earlobe between his teeth, kissing his neck. “It was all a cunning ploy to get you alone.” 

Benedict gasps in mock shock and feigned horror. “ _Granville!_ ” he exclaims, canting his hips back against Henry, feeling the press of his hardening cock. “I am _appalled_.” 

“Uh huh,” Henry murmurs against his neck, reaches down, cups Benedict’s erection through his trousers. “You certainly seem it.” 

Benedict drops the pretence, lets his head fall back against Henry’s shoulder, angles so that they can kiss, sloppy and messy and _heated_. He smiles into the kiss, his heart overflowing, overfalling, and murmurs, “I’m going to need you to fuck me now, Henry.” 

“That will be tricky,” Henry whispers, one hand coming to settle around Benedict’s throat, the other stroking his cock _achingly_ slowly. “The door is locked, and we do not have any supplies. I am fairly sure you do not want me to fuck you raw.” 

“Ah, yes, please do not do that,” Benedict answers, laughing, then pulls away from Henry, steps slowly to the chaise longue in the centre of the parlour, undoing his trousers as he does so. “But I think upon closer inspection,” he says, not looking back, stripping off his shirt, dropping it to the floor, pushing his trousers down around his knees, “you will find that you will not need to.” He glances back over his shoulder, sees the hunger in Henry’s eyes, the _want_ , and it’s such a familiar expression, something he’s seen so many times over the years, engraved on his memory, but it never fails to send an answering shiver of lust trembling down his own spine. He smiles, wicked and wanton, and bends forward, grips the back of the chaise, says with a challenge and a barb, “Well?” 

Henry practically growls, dark and wanting, and covers the space between them in a heartbeat. His hands spread across Benedict’s skin, mapping his body, slipping down, his fingers slipping _inside_ him, already slick and stretched and _ready_. “Oh,” Henry whispers. “Oh, _Benedict_.” 

Benedict shivers, pushes back against Henry’s hands. “As much as I love it when you take your time with me,” he says, voice already wrecked, “sometimes I am _impatient_. This seemed like the best way to get to the point.” 

“I can see that,” Henry says, low and heated, and twists his fingers with the ease of long practice, sends sparks shooting up Benedict’s spine. “Did you do this before you came to the studio tonight?” 

Benedict looks back at him, bares his teeth in a smile and shakes his head. “Barely half an hour ago,” he corrects, and sees Henry’s pupils dilate. “On your bed, Henry. I buried my face in the sheets so I could smell you, and then I fucked myself open on my fingers, imagining how it would soon be you.” He proffers the small jar he palmed from the pocket of his trousers, grins a challenge. “Well? Will you disappoint me?” 

Henry’s gaze is oddly soft. “Never knowingly,” he says, taking the jar, but instead of doing what Benedict has quite _clearly_ indicated that he wants him to, he tugs Benedict upright, spins him round, kisses him. “All these years, and you still make me fall in love with you afresh every single day,” he murmurs, kisses him again. “You never cease to astonish me, Benedict.” 

Benedict smiles with the warmth of affection, of comfort, of trust. “You old romantic,” he murmurs between Henry’s lips. “Do not think that this will get you out of fucking me silly, though.” 

Henry rolls his eyes, steals another kiss, and then starts stripping out of his clothes with a single-minded purpose that is burned into Benedict’s heart. Benedict undresses with the same haste, ready for this, so fucking _ready_ , and then Henry sits on the chaise longue, pulls Benedict close, tugs him astride his lap. “You’re that desperate?” he whispers, pressing the jar into Benedict’s hand. “Ride me, Bridgerton.” 

Benedict feels arousal flare in his gut, almost painful, and groans, kisses Henry, fumbles the jar open. He slicks Henry’s cock hastily, kisses him again, and sinks down, _oh_ , the stretch so much better than his fingers, so familiar yet so perfect every time. Henry moans softly into their kiss, his hands cupping Benedict’s face, sliding into his hair, and thrusts up, burying himself deeper, and that just spurs Benedict on, curls a hand around his heart and squeezes tight. He braces one hand against the back of the chaise and pulls away from Henry’s embrace, pressing his other hand to the centre of his chest, pinning him in place – and then starts to ride him in earnest. Henry’s head falls back against the back of the chaise, his mouth open, his eyes lidded, and his fingers dig into Benedict’s hips, fingernails biting into his skin. “Oh _God_ ,” he moans, panting, and matches Benedict’s rhythm, fucking up into him with every roll of his hips, driving glancing touches across that perfect spot inside Benedict’s body. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Benedict groans, his head falling forward against his chest, his expression twisting in pleasure, in want, in love. “ _Fuck_ , Henry,” he gasps. 

Henry’s hands tighten impossibly harder on his hips. “Yes,” he says, his teeth gritted, staring up at Benedict with fire in his eyes, his cheeks pink. “ _Yes_.” 

Benedict barks a laugh, pushes Henry back, sees his eyes flare at the wordless command. “I want you to come inside me,” he whispers, smirking as Henry groans softly. “When I leave here, when I go home without you, I want to feel you still inside me.” 

“Fuck, _Benedict_ —”

“Yes, exactly,” Benedict interrupts, grinding harder, clenching as the angle jolts through him, ecstasy, shudderingly bright behind his eyes – and under him Henry whimpers, breathes sharply, and his hips judder in irregular bursts as he comes, eyes rolled back in his head, hoarse and voiceless and _drowning_ in his own pleasure. 

Benedict grins, victorious and flushed. “I love your face when you come, Henry,” he says, offhanded and almost nonchalant. “So much of the time, you’re so _restrained_. Like this, it’s the only time you let yourself come wholly undone.” He leans forward, catches Henry’s slack lips in a kiss. “And to know that I am the only one who can give that to you,” he whispers, his heart burning in his chest, “it makes me so fucking _hard_.” 

Henry laughs softly, looks up at him with undisguised affection. “Ever the romantic,” he murmurs, kisses him in return, then surges up, his arm wrapped around Benedict’s waist, flips them so that Benedict is the one sprawled out on the chaise. Without hesitation, Henry kneels between Benedict’s spread legs and takes his cock into his mouth, sucking and slurping with performative obscenity – and, _ah!_ , his fingers slip further down, slide back into him, pressing unerring in exactly the right spot to—

Benedict arches up, lets out a wordless shout, and abruptly comes. 

Henry sits back on his heels, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and flashes Benedict a sharp smile. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, crawls up his body, kisses his throat. “Quite beautiful, my love.” 

Benedict hums his satisfaction, wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulders, crushes him to his chest. “I think,” he says, soft and almost meditative in his post-orgasm laxity, “that I am getting your come on the chaise.” 

Henry snorts. “It’s not the worst thing this chaise has seen,” he says, grinning. “Last month I believe Lucy stumbled across Yolanda _and_ Anders _and_ Panta in here, doing all _kinds_ of inappropriate things.” 

Benedict smirks, kisses Henry’s temple. “Knowing Lucy, I’m surprised she didn’t join in.” 

“Oh, she was invited,” Henry says. “But she had plans with that Scottish beau of hers, apparently.” 

“McMillan?” 

“Mmm, that’s the one.” 

Benedict shifts, tugs Henry to him, kisses him slow and long and loving. “I love you,” he murmurs, kisses him again. 

“As you should,” Henry answers, smirking, and kisses him once again before pulling away. “As much as I would love to spend all night here with you, Benedict, you are meeting Anthony early tomorrow morning and I have a morning sitting with the earl of Oxford.” 

Benedict grimaces. “That old prick?” he asks, catches the underclothes and trousers that Henry tosses to him. “Won’t _that_ be fun.” 

Henry shrugs, tugging his shirt over his head. “An old prick he might be,” he says, “but he has a very interesting face. He’s _fascinating_ to paint.” 

“I think I’ll stick to landscapes,” Benedict says, lips twisting in distaste, and ducks into his own shirt. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Henry says, pausing in the process of doing up his trousers. “Aristotle spotted that Cornwall seascape you did over the summer and expressed a fairly strong interest in having it hung in her house.” 

Benedict’s eyebrows jump. “She did?” 

The smile that’s twitching Henry’s lips is loving and warm and _proud_. “She did,” he confirms. “I told her that I would have to ask the artist.” 

Benedict feels his cheeks flush, busies himself in buttoning up his waistcoat. “Well,” he says, his voice wound tight in his throat. “That is… quite something.” 

Henry’s dressed, now, his boots high on his calves and his shirt open at the throat. He steps closer, brushes his fingers against Benedict’s cheek. “It is deserved,” he says softly. “ _You_ deserve it, Benedict.” He pauses, smirks. “Although I maintain that you only prefer the natural world because you _still_ cannot draw hands.” 

Benedict stands, slips his arms around Henry’s waist, kisses him. “You are simply jealous,” he says, haughty and aloof, “that you are still horrifically challenged by the simplest of hedges.” 

“Ugh, _leaves_ ,” Henry groans. “God’s mistakes.” 

Benedict laughs, kisses him again. 

There’s a rap at the door, sharp and short. “If you two are done flirting, fucking, or whatever else it is you’re doing in there,” Lucy calls, “all the guests are gone, Henry, and the carriage is waiting to take us home. My feet are in _agony_ and I would like to go to bed, please!” 

Henry grins. “I will be right there,” he calls, and reaches up to cup Benedict’s cheek, kisses him gently. “My wife awaits,” he says, smiling wryly. 

“In which case, your husband will bid you goodbye,” Benedict says, kisses him in turn. “I will see you and Lucy tomorrow night at Grosvenor Square for dinner. I believe Mother has invited Lady Marsden, too.” 

“I look forward to it,” Henry says, warm and bright and affectionate, takes his hand, squeezes. 

Benedict squeezes back, then lets go. 

Henry joins Lucy in their carriage, flashes Benedict one last smile, more guarded, now, more careful even though the night is dark and empty and there’s no one here to see, and then they’re gone, the driver, Paul, tossing Benedict a nod as they clatter past. It’s cold enough that Benedict’s breath frosts the air, and for a moment he glances up at the sky, black and star-flung, the moon a sliver in the darkness. London is quiet around him, the streets, the buildings, the closed doors and curtained windows, and Benedict walks the cobbles, hands in his pockets, wine thrumming in his blood and the taste of Henry’s kisses still on his lips. 

He gets back to his apartment at some point after midnight, tired and happy and content. He slips inside, hopefully without waking his dragon of a housekeeper, sheds his coat onto the back of an armchair, collapses face-first into bed, and is asleep in moments.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of coffee and fried eggs drifting through the house is what rouses Henry from the depths of sleep, blinking blearily against the brightness of the light spilling in through the curtains. He drags himself out of bed, washes and dresses, then follows his nose downstairs to the breakfast room where Alasdair is overseeing a veritable spread. He hums his satisfaction, the lingering remnants of last night’s whisky still working their way through his body, and sits down opposite a similarly-bleary Lucy to eggs, bacon, black pudding, fried tomatoes, and _coffee_. 

“Today’s correspondence,” Alasdair says, setting a small silver tray at Henry’s elbow. 

Henry spears a stray chunk of black pudding. “Anything that looks interesting?” 

“A letter that appears to be in your brother’s handwriting,” Alasdair answers, “and one that I believe has come all the way from the Americas.”

“Oh, that’ll be for me,” Lucy says. “It’s about the time that I should be hearing back from Sally.” She extends her hand. “Do pass that one here, Alasdair.” 

Alasdair obliges. “Anything else, Sir Henry?” 

Henry is already halfway through his brother’s letter, Bill’s cramped handwriting giving him a headache this early in the morning. “That’ll be all,” he says, distracted, and eats another piece of bacon. 

On the other side of the table, skimming her childhood friend’s letter, Lucy laughs. “Oh, you’ll have to read this,” she says, glancing up at Henry. “Sally always did have a gift for a cutting remark, and life across the Atlantic has _clearly_ not changed that. Listen to this: ‘ _In the face of such truculence, such stubbornness, I had no choice but to administer the harshest of rebukes. I told him that he might be my husband, but that I did not make that Godforsaken journey across the seas to live as if I were nothing more than delicate, exotic bird hopping around in his ugly, excrement-laden, poorly-built cage._ ’ I am not sure that she likes her husband’s mansion, you know.” 

Henry raises an eyebrow, puts Bill’s letter to one side and starts to sort through the rest. “Perhaps she should have thought a little more about it,” he observes, “before following a man she barely knows across the ocean.” 

Lucy waves a hand. “You know Sally,” she says. “Impulse control is not her strong suit.” 

“True,” Henry says wryly, setting aside the letters written in familiar hands, mostly friends, one from an uncle whose political opinions tend to leave a little to be desired. That leaves two unfamiliar notes, and he opens the first. A request for a commission from some Yorkshire baron – he’ll deal with that when he’s more awake. The second is written in a rather interesting shade of streaky purple, as if the same pen has been used with red and blue ink so carelessly that the inks are now inextricably blended in the nib, and he studies it for a moment before pulling it open and reading. 

A cold hand settles around his heart. 

Lucy barks another laugh, preoccupied with her friend’s words. “She has replaced his _entire_ household staff!” she exclaims, flipping onto Sally’s second sheet of densely-written paper. “And torn down a water feature in the gardens that was so full of pondweed you could not make out whether the sculptures were Cupids or elephants.” 

“Alasdair,” Henry says, his voice tight, and Lucy looks up at him, surprised. 

Alasdair is at his side in a moment. “Yes, Sir Henry?” 

“Who is this from?” Henry asks, holding up the streaked purple handwriting in fingers that are faintly trembling. “Who delivered it?” 

Alasdair studies the letter, committing it to memory. “I do not know,” he answers, brusque and efficient. “However, I believe that Jacque was on the door this morning – I will make enquiries.” 

“Do that now,” Henry orders sharply.

Alasdair nods and disappears out the door. 

“Henry?” Lucy asks softly, setting Sally’s letter to one side. “What is it?” 

“A somewhat mysterious note,” Henry answers, carefully keeping his voice level. “I do not know the handwriting, and the ink is strange.”

“What does it say?” Lucy presses. 

Henry’s jaw tightens. “It says, ‘ _An eye for an eye, Granville_.’”

Shock jolts through Lucy’s face. “Let me see,” she says, a command not to be disobeyed, and Henry passes the note to her. She scans it, glances at the back, looks up. “It is unsigned.” 

“An anonymous threat,” Henry says. “Hardly the gentlemanly way to approach matters, don’t you think?” 

“Don’t joke, Henry,” Lucy says, a brittle kind of intensity to her voice. 

Henry smiles an equally brittle smile. “I rather think that joking is the best way to approach the matter,” he says tightly. “Given that I am apparently being threatened for no reason that I can immediately think of, joking is perhaps the _only_ way to proceed.” 

Lucy’s expression softens and she reaches across the table, takes his hand. “I apologise,” she says quietly, just as tight as him. “I spoke too quickly. I did not mean to snipe.” 

Henry interlaces their fingers, squeezes. His heart is thudding loud in his chest, so hard it’s almost painful. “You are forgiven,” he says. “You are always forgiven, Lucy.” He grimaces. “And you are right, I should not joke. It is not funny.” 

Alasdair clears his throat politely. “I have spoken to Jacque,” he says, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “They did not recognise the messenger, I am afraid, and there were no distinguishing marks on his livery. A blond man, approximately six feet tall, wearing a forest green jacket with gold piping.” 

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Expensive clothing for a messenger,” he says. 

“Which suggests that whoever sent this has money,” Lucy observes. “A lot of money.” 

That cold hand tightens harder around Henry’s ribs. “That does not seem good,” he says, his heart thudding faster in his chest. “That, in fact, seems the opposite of good.” 

Lucy looks back at the note. “There’s no detail here,” she says, thoughtful. “No explicit threat. Perhaps this is just an empty gesture, Henry. Perhaps it means nothing.” 

Henry can see in her eyes that she does not believe a word that she is saying. “Perhaps,” he offers, forcing a smile. “Perhaps it is nothing. A prank. Roche’s poor taste – or Aronofski, he has a spectacularly unfunny sense of humour.” 

Lucy doesn’t smile. “Perhaps,” she says, and sets the letter down on the table between them, its red-blue-purple ink shining in the cold autumnal light. 

Benedict has a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other when Anthony comes barrelling into his apartment, unannounced and unheralded. His brother’s cheeks are flushed red with cold, and the ragged scarf around his neck is one that Benedict’s fairly sure Daphne’s little Beatrice knitted him for Christmas last year. The stitches have held up remarkably well, considering it was made by a seven year old. “ _Benedict_ ,” Anthony says, stripping off his gloves and collapsing into the chair opposite him. “You’re here.” 

“Oh no, you’ve found me,” Benedict says drily, folding the paper and putting it to one side. “What a torment this is. It’s almost as if you knew to look for me _in my own apartment_.” 

Anthony doesn’t smile, just unwinds the rough knitted scarf and piles it on the table beside Benedict’s breakfast. 

Benedict frowns. “I thought we were meeting at the club?” he asks slowly. “An hour from now?” 

“We were,” Anthony says shortly, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat and drawing out a letter. He tosses it down on top of the newspaper, a thread of tension in his jaw that sets Benedict’s teeth on edge. “However, I do not think this is the kind of thing you want to be reading in public.” 

The letter is folded, the main text still invisible, but the paper is thick, clearly expensive. The handwriting is unfamiliar, strangely elongated, the letters of _Lord Anthony Bridgerton_ tall and narrow, and the ink is odd, almost mottled, red and blue marbled together into an approximation of bruise-black purple. 

For some reason, Benedict does not want to read that letter. “Have you and Kate been writing filthy letters to each other again?” he asks instead, sipping his coffee in an attempt to hide his apprehension. “If so, I don’t want to read it. Seeing Colin’s face when he accidentally picked the last one up was—”

“Benedict,” Anthony interrupts sharply. “Read the damn letter.” 

Benedict sets his coffee down. “What is going on, Anthony?” he asks quietly. 

Anthony huffs out a frustrated breath, picks up the letter and unfolds it with a flourish, tosses it down again where Benedict can’t _not_ see it. “This was hand-delivered to Grosvenor Square this morning,” he says, “by a messenger in unmarked livery. There is no signature, no indication as to who it is from.” His eyes are burning. “Someone _knows_ , Benedict,” he says, fear and passion and horror shining in his voice. “Someone knows about you and Granville.” 

For a long moment, Benedict can’t breathe. 

_I do not know you, Lord Bridgerton_ , the letter reads, _and I daresay that you do not know me. It pains me to make your acquaintance thus, but there is a matter I must bring to your attention, as one God-fearing Christian man to another._

 _Your brother Benedict_ , Benedict reads, his own name slicking bitter across his tongue, _is one of those damned, aberrant men who fornicates with his own sex, who indulges in abhorrent carnal activities with other men of standing. One man in particular, I am grieved to tell you: Sir Henry Granville, a sodomite and an artist._

 _But I would not expect you to believe an anonymous letter like this, Lord Bridgerton, without proof._ Benedict's hands are trembling. _Granville has a studio where he hosts all manner of devilish, wicked gatherings, licentious and illegal and utterly depraved. If you venture into the depths of that den of iniquity, you can see for yourself the outrages which he subjects your brother to, the vile, sinful activities that such men engage in._

Benedict vaguely thinks that he might be sick. 

_Yours in good faith_ , the letter is signed. _A friend._

No, actually, Benedict _is_ going to be sick. 

He stumbles to his feet, dropping the letter that he doesn’t remember picking up, goes to his thankfully empty washbasin, and empties his stomach in a series of long, wracking heaves, bringing up fresh coffee, half-digested eggs, and a good deal of last night’s stale wine. He rests his forehead against the cool china, panting, vaguely aware that Anthony is shoving the letter in his pocket, then ringing for the housekeeper, asking her to bring fresh water and dry toast – but all Benedict can think is, _Oh God, Henry._

Someone knows. Someone knows and is trying to destroy them. 

His stomach roils again, and he vomits yellow bile into the washbasin. 

“Benedict?” Anthony asks softly. 

Benedict spits into the washbasin, his stomach muscles spasming even as he wills himself to calm. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, grimaces at the foul taste. “Too much wine last night,” he says, trying to make a joke out of it, “and too much hatred this morning.” He gropes for the back of his chair, sits down heavily, winces as the movement jolts his tender stomach. “You received it this morning?” he asks, glancing up at Anthony. 

Anthony nods. “First thing,” he answers. “No one who saw the messenger recognised him as belonging to any particular household – but I suppose the letter does state that the author does not know me.” His lips twist. “Perhaps the servants would not know this man’s messengers anyway.” 

“A man?” Benedict says. “You believe it comes from a man?” 

“A woman would be unlikely to so brazenly address a strange man as ‘friend’,” Anthony points out. 

“It could be a further level of disguise,” Benedict says, his chest feeling oddly constricted, his heart stuttering, his fingers clenching uselessly at the air. “It could be to throw us off the scent, to confuse matters, to—”

Anthony grabs his shoulder, silencing him. “Benedict,” he says. “Stop.” 

Benedict is spiralling. He knows he’s spiralling. He closes his eyes, forces himself to unclench his fists, breathes, breathes. 

Anthony doesn’t remove his hand from his shoulder. 

The door opens and Mrs Miller bustles in, a jug of water under her arm and a tray with toast, butter, crispy bacon, fried potatoes, baked tomatoes and a fresh carafe of coffee in her hands. She assesses the scene before her with a single beady glance—the fear in Benedict’s face, the tension in Anthony’s shoulders—and sets to work, clearing away the debris on the table and replacing it with the tray, removing the washbasin and fetching a damp, lemon-scented cloth for Benedict’s face, followed by a concoction of mint and baking soda to get the lingering taste of vomit out of his mouth. She doesn’t fuss, doesn’t hover, doesn’t fret, just deals with Benedict and Anthony the same way she always does, a blend of stern judgement and wry amusement. “Eat something, Mr Bridgerton,” she says firmly, plumping a piece of toast down in front of him. “All this carousing, waking me up at all hours – you need to eat if you’re going to keep all that up and not fall over on the doorstep one night.” 

Benedict smiles at her. “Thank you, Marian,” he says. “I’ll bear that in mind.” 

Mrs Miller nods shortly, pats his shoulder. “Eat,” she says again, points at the toast, and disappears out of the door. 

Anthony waits until the door is closed and the housekeeper’s footsteps have receded down the hallway, then reaches into his jacket, retrieves the letter and sets it carefully on the table between them. “If I were a different man,” he says softly, clearly fighting to control his anger, “this letter would have destroyed you both, Benedict.” 

“I know,” Benedict answers, then does as Mrs Miller insists and takes a small bite of toast. It sits in his stomach, settling it, settling him. “For what it is worth, Anthony, I am very glad you are not a different man.” 

Anthony’s jaw is tight. “Who hates you this much, Benedict?” he asks quietly. “Who knows you this well and hates you _this much?_ ” 

Benedict eats the toast in small, mechanical bites. “I do not believe,” he says slowly, “that _I_ am the one who is hated.” 

Anthony frowns. “How so?” 

Benedict picks up the letter, unfolds it, smoothes it out from where Anthony crumpled it into his pocket in his haste to hide it from Mrs Miller. “The way it is written,” he says, calmer, more logical. “The focus is on Henry, on the devilish gatherings that _he_ hosts and the horrific outrages that _he_ subjects me to. I am collateral, here. Despite what your mysterious friend says, I believe that Henry is the one he wants to ruin.” 

Anthony bares his teeth. “He is not _my friend_ ,” he spits, shoving to his feet, pacing the confines of Benedict’s breakfast room. “No one who would speak of you like this is my _friend_ , Benedict.” 

“Many of your business associates would speak of me like this if they knew the truth,” Benedict says mildly. 

Anthony runs a hand through his hair. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, but doesn’t deny the truth of Benedict’s words. 

Benedict puts the letter down, picks up another piece of toast, contemplates it for a moment. “I need to speak to Henry,” he says, eerily calm, oh, he should not be this calm, he is _far_ too calm. “I need to know he is alright. I need to—” He stops, his heart thudding so hard against his ribs that it genuinely hurts. “Do you think that there are other letters like this one?” he asks, looking up at Anthony, still calm, still unruffled. “Do you think that you were not the only one who received a letter like this?” 

Anthony stares at him, something almost _haunted_ in his gaze. “I do not know,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Oh God, Benedict, I had not even _considered_ that.” 

Benedict flashes a muted smile. “Well, I suppose that we will find out soon,” he says. “I cannot go to him, can I? To Henry, I mean.” 

Anthony shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, I do not think you can. You must be careful, Benedict.” 

Benedict doesn’t say that he’s _always_ careful, that _they’re_ always careful, that they spend every ball and soiree and society event dancing around each other like planets circling the sun, intimately linked, never touching, never even coming _close_. “Dinner tonight,” he says hoarsely. “At Grosvenor Square. Henry and Lucy will be there.” His throat constricts for a moment. “And if they are not,” he says, softer, “then that gives us an answer, as well.” 

Anthony’s gaze flares. “If there is anything I can do to ensure that you and your lover are safe, Benedict,” he says, low and tight, “know that I will do it. _Anything_.” 

“I call him my husband, you know,” Benedict says before he can think better of it, his fingers digging into the meat of his thighs, the pain sharp and bitter, cutting through the haze of faux-calm that’s settled over his mind like fog. He grimaces, shakes his head, looks away. “A foolish dream,” he spits. “A false hope. I know better.” 

Anthony’s footsteps sound on the carpet, and Benedict finds himself being tugged to his feet, dragged into his brother’s embrace. “I would change the world for you if I could, Benedict,” Anthony bites out. “The whole damn _world_.” 

Benedict wraps his arms around Anthony, hangs on so tight he’s fairly sure it hurts. There are so many things he could say, thanks and love and family and _fear_ , so much fear, but he doesn’t speak them. He doesn’t need to. Anthony already knows. 

He breathes, his chest tight, his eyes dry, and holds on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it's been a weird-ass week.
> 
> A decent portion of this chapter was written while I was... let's go with not exactly sober last Friday, and I may well end up doing the same thing this week. So that could be interesting 😂
> 
> Also, I should probably say here that I’ve still not read any of the books (and don’t plan to), so anything I know about the canonical partners of the other Bridgertons comes from mainly fanon and Tumblr osmosis. The only post S1 canon pairings I’m respecting are Colin/Penelope (because I’ve already met those characters) and Anthony/Kate (because the actress is gorgeous). Everything else, I’m gonna elide or handwave!

Henry spends the day with a spring coiled so tight in his chest he can barely breathe. 

The morning is spent at the London residence of the earl of Oxford, who gripes and complains about all manner of subject matters—foreigners, women, the servants who are standing in the very same room—while Henry works on capturing the crooked, hawklike profile of his nose. There’s a rhythm to this kind of work, the weight of the paintbrush, the smell of the paints, the logic of colour and shape and form, and he hasn’t done this for as long as he has without being able to put aside his own fears and suffering when he has to. And right now, when all he wants to do is hyperventilate and tremble, he has to. 

_An eye for an eye, Granville._

A visceral shudder rips through his spine, and Henry holds his paintbrush away from the canvas in an attempt not to ruin all his work so far. 

He leaves the earl in the early afternoon and goes to the club, has a late luncheon at a quiet table in the corner while he peruses a new translation of Herodotus’ _Histories_ that was left by the table’s previous occupant. A few acquaintances greet him and he chats to them briefly, then takes up an old friend from Westminster on an offer of an afternoon brandy. It’s a normal day, an everyday day, the kind of day that is unremarkable, unmemorable, that will never be written about in stories or songs. 

_An eye for an eye, Granville._

Henry’s hand shakes so much he spills brandy all over his thigh. 

He excuses himself from the club shortly after five and makes his way home. He washes, changes his creased, dirty, brandy-stained clothes for fresh evening wear, then goes downstairs, sits heavily in the drawing room—a somewhat different atmosphere to the drawing room at the studio, he reflects with a twist to his lips—and pours himself a whisky while he waits for Lucy. 

An eye for a fucking eye. 

Henry passes his hand over his eyes and breathes slowly, achingly slowly, deep and even and as calm as he can manage. 

He’s had that damn letter burning a hole in the pocket of his waistcoat all day. 

A hand settles on his back, warm and grounding. “We do not have to go,” Lucy says softly, rubbing slow circles, comforting, reassuring. “We can send Billy, let Lord Bridgerton know that something has come up. He will not mind.”

Henry turns, takes her hand, squeezes affectionately. “I must speak with Benedict,” he says, just as soft, and Lucy nods, smiling faintly. “I know that there is nothing to suggest that he is involved in this, but…” He trails off, shrugs. “I must see him,” he says, a little more ragged. 

Lucy’s smile is knowing. “Of course,” she says. “In which case, we should go, dearest. We will be late.” 

Henry nods, squeezes her hand once more and lets go. “You look lovely,” he says. “This emerald silk? Stunning.” 

Lucy laughs, winding her arm through his as they walk to the carriage. “For all your flaws, Henry,” she says, light and tripping over the fear that is wound through both of their hearts, “and for all the aspects of married life that we eschew, I have to say that you compliment me _far_ more than many of my friends’ husbands do.” She twirls her skirt before her. “And most of their husbands would just say _green_ rather than _emerald_.” 

“A painter’s eye,” Henry says, kisses her cheek, leads them down the steps of the townhouse. “Green is a _world_ away from emerald!”

“I agree entirely,” Lucy says as Henry hands her into their carriage. “And I must say, Henry, that I am so very glad that I have a husband who knows the difference.” She takes his hand as the carriage jolts into motion, holds on tight. “I am glad that you are my husband,” she says, heavy with meaning. “No matter what anyone else might say, might think, might _do_. I am glad.” 

“Stop,” Henry says, somewhere between wry and heartbroken. “You will inflate my ego irreparably.” 

Lucy laughs again, high and bright, and sits back. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” 

The journey to Grosvenor Square doesn’t take long, and the whole time that damned letter is tearing Henry’s heart in two. 

The servant who opens the door recognises them immediately and ushers them inside, takes Henry’s coat and Lucy’s fur stole, hands them over to the butler who bows, greets them both by name, and takes them straight to Henry’s favourite reception room, the one with gilded fleur de lis on the wallpaper and a rug of complex, interlocking woven patternwork that Henry, with all his grasp of faces and hands and skin tones, could never hope to replicate on canvas. Lord Bridgerton—who every time they meet insists that Henry calls him Anthony—is standing by the fireplace, glass of champagne in one hand, deep in conversation with Lady Marsden, and sitting around the low table are the two Lady Bridgertons, Violet and Kate, and Miss Eloise, who looks typically like she would rather be somewhere else. 

And there, by the window, alone and lost in thought. 

Henry’s heart twists in his chest when he sees the man loves, will _always_ love, the dark sweep of his hair, the elegant line of his back, the span of his shoulders and the narrow cinch of his waist. Oh, he has been strong all day, he has held himself together and held himself apart and that has _worked_ , it has _worked_ , but now he’s here, Benedict is here, only a moment away, and there is nothing he wants more than to just fall into his arms, to shake and tremble and scream his fear to the unfeeling skies. 

Lucy’s hand settles on his wrist, warm and steady. 

“Sir and Mrs Granville,” the butler announces, bows smartly, and disappears. 

Benedict turns sharply, catches Henry’s gaze in an instant, and such _horror_ flashes in his eyes that Henry’s heart goes cold. 

An eye for an eye. 

“Ah, Granville,” Anthony says, warm and expansive and _tight_ , tight and strained and terrified, oh God, no, what is it, what has happened? “If you wouldn’t mind, there is a matter we must discuss before dinner.” He glances to Benedict, looks back to Henry. “My study might be best, gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Benedict says, his voice just as tight as his brother’s. “Yes, I would agree.” 

No, Henry thinks, looking between them, his heart in his throat, no, oh, what has happened, what is it that has them both so _afraid?_ “Of course,” he says, polite and calm, as if they are to discuss a commission or a matter of politics or the latest fashion dictating the number of buttons in waistcoats. “Please, Lord Bridgerton, lead the way.” 

Lucy squeezes his wrist as he goes, and there is nothing but support in her eyes. 

The moment that the door of Anthony’s study closes behind them, Henry finds himself being kissed, mercilessly, relentlessly, Benedict’s hands in his hair and against his skin and, fuck, he’s been craving this since this morning, since he opened that note and felt its poison spill into his veins. He kisses back, desperate and aching, seeking a comfort that he cannot get from anywhere else, not from friends, not from family, not from his damn _wife_ , no, the only place he can feel this safe and secure and _relieved_ is in the arms of his husband. 

“Henry,” Benedict whispers, his fingers curled tight in the front of Henry’s jacket. “Thank God. We feared the worst. The letter—” He breaks off, shudders. 

Henry pulls back, frowns. “You know?” he asks, searching Benedict’s face. “How can you know? I only received the note this morning.” 

Benedict stills. “What note?” 

Anthony steps forward, tightness in the creases around his eyes. “You received a letter, too, Granville?” 

There’s only one word that Henry can focus on in that sentence. “ ‘ _Too_ ’?” he echoes. 

Benedict exchanges a glance with his brother, that Bridgerton wordless communication that Henry has never yet managed to decipher, and then Anthony reaches into the pocket of his jacket, retrieves a letter, a little battered, written in—

Oh _shit_.

—written in blurred red-blue purpling ink. 

Henry fumbles in his own pocket, drags out his own neatly-folded note in that same ink, that same hand, all of it, the same, the _same_. 

“Shit,” Anthony swears. 

“What does it say?” Benedict asks, quiet and tight, his gaze fixed on the paper in Henry’s hand. 

Henry hands him the note, watches as he unfolds it, watches the spasm of fear that flickers across his face. “Ah,” Benedict says, glances to his brother. “It confirms what we thought,” he says, holds Henry’s letter out to Anthony. 

Anthony steps closer, reads, then grimaces and holds his own letter out to Henry. “You need to read this, Granville,” he says, a strange kind of hollowness to his voice. “Although I fear that you will not enjoy it.” 

Henry reads.

 _Not enjoy it_ is an understatement. _Not enjoy it_ is the biggest lie Henry has ever heard. 

Henry lets out a sharp breath, drops the vile thing on Anthony’s desk. “I did not—” He breaks off, unable to finish the thought, turns to his husband. “ _Benedict_ —”

Benedict reaches for him, takes his hand, does not let go. “An eye for an eye,” he says softly.

Henry’s head is swimming. “Someone is trying to take you from me,” he says, ratcheted tight. “In exchange for some _sin_ that I have committed, some imagined slight, someone is trying to destroy you.” 

“And destroy you, too, Granville,” Anthony interjects. “This letter, in the wrong hands? It would ruin you as effectively as it would ruin my brother.” 

“Perhaps more so,” Benedict says. 

“I think I may vomit,” Henry says faintly. 

“Feel free to do so,” Anthony says with a tight grin. “Benedict did.” 

Benedict twitches a grimace of a smile. “In my defence, I think a good portion of that was because of the hangover,” he points out, his hand warm in Henry’s, trembling a little, his palm clammy. He huffs a laugh, bitter. “The Chardonnay, I suppose.” 

Less than a day ago, they were wrapped in each other in the studio’s parlour, breaths panting, fingers dug into flesh, hot and slick and so fucking good, so fucking _perfect_ , not a care, not a worry, not a fear, only their love and their life and everything that they have built together. 

And now _this_.

Henry takes a breath, steadies himself. This is not the first time he has faced fear like this and, in all likelihood, it will not be the last. “It seems that we have been lucky,” he says tightly, and both of the Bridgertons’ gazes snap to him in an instant. “There are many ways that our mysterious enemy could have chosen to go about this – the papers, the peelers. Instead he chose to write a letter to Lord Bridgerton, a course of action which has not had the desired effect.” 

“And it never would,” Anthony says, arms folded, expression thunderous. 

Henry inclines his head, gratitude and respect. “And you will never know, my lord, how grateful I am for that.” 

Benedict doesn’t let go of his hand. If anything, he grips tighter. His expression is grim. 

“The question we must consider,” Henry says, “is how to proceed.” He flashes a tight smile. “I do not imagine that our foe will give up when he realises that his initial attack has failed – the vitriol in that letter is not the kind of anger that fades quickly.” 

“We need to know who it is,” Benedict says quietly. “We need to find out who sent these damn letters.” He grimaces. “But there was no signature.” 

“And the messenger was appropriately anonymous,” Henry adds. 

They’re silent for a moment, tension thrumming in the wood-panelled, leather-lined study. A fire crackles gently in the grate, keeping the chill of late autumn at bay. A cold wind rattles around the windows, prying at the edges, trying to get inside. 

“It is someone who knows you,” Anthony says eventually, his voice loud in the quiet. “Someone who believes that they have been _wronged_ by you, I would wager – and someone who knows the truth of your relationship with Benedict.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “That cannot be a long list of names.” 

Henry looks at Benedict, sees the fire-shadowed line of his cheekbone, the furrow in his forehead, the stubborn set of his jaw. “It is not,” he says softly. “Yourself, Lord Bridgerton, and the rest of the family. My wife, of course. A few of our friends, Roche and Aristotle for sure. A few others, Landsworth, Wilson.”

“And Genevieve,” Benedict adds, his voice tight. 

Henry nods. “Yes, Genevieve,” he agrees. “My servants also know, as does Mrs Miller – but this is not the work of a servant.” 

“Servants talk,” Anthony says grimly. “That was unwise, Granville. You should not have trusted them to keep your confidence.” 

“Not these servants,” Benedict counters, sharp and angry. “Not about this.” 

“He is correct,” Henry interjects, seeing the challenge rise in Anthony’s shoulders. “And, please, this is not a time for disagreement. Not when there is so much at stake.” For a moment a half-remembered image flashes through his memory, a dream, a nightmare, the noose, the hangman, the searing, wrenching pain that woke him from his slumber with a cry on his lips and a icy crack in his heart – but no, no, it was a dream, it was not real, it _will not_ be real. He catches his breath. “I cannot think that any of those we have named would do this,” he says quietly, holding Benedict’s gaze. “I cannot think that I could have hurt any of them _this much_.” 

All of a sudden, Benedict’s eyes go wide. He sucks in a sharp breath. 

Anthony’s gaze flicks to his brother. “Benedict?” 

Benedict stares at Henry – and, oh, there is _anger_ in his eyes. “Someone who has been hurt by you,” he says, his voice trembling with utter _rage_. “Someone who has been wronged by you, and who knows you well enough to know where your heart truly lies.” 

Henry frowns. “Who are you thinking of, Benedict?” 

There is a strange kind of certainty in Benedict’s eyes, almost abject in its intensity. Henry wants to look away but finds that he cannot. “The last man you loved, Henry,” Benedict says, his jaw rigid. “The last man who loved _you_.” 

_Hugh._

An old knife twists in Henry’s heart, a wound that never quite healed, and for a fractured heartbeat he’s there again, in the studio as it was all those years ago, on his knees, tears in his eyes, _begging_ Hugh not to go, not to _do_ this. But he did it, oh, he had _already_ done it, and he left without looking back. 

But this is not him. 

“No,” Henry says, shaking his head, dragging himself back to the present. “No, Benedict, he would not do this to me.” 

Righteous fury blazes in Benedict’s eyes. “He knows that you turned to me after he left,” he says. “It is known around the _ton_ that we are good friends, and it would therefore not be difficult for him to infer that we are still involved.” 

Anthony has averted his gaze, studying the hateful letter once more as if there are more clues to be gleaned from its poison, but Henry is painfully aware that he can hear every word of this agonising conversation. “Why would he do this?” Henry says, keeping his voice as level as he can when his heart is pounding against his ribs. He squeezes Benedict’s hand, willing him to see reason. “He has moved on, Benedict. It has been a _decade_ now. He has a wife and three beautiful children. His household is the picture of domestic bliss.” He cannot entirely keep the bitterness from his voice, and he says, “He has everything he ever wanted. I doubt he thinks of me at all.” 

“Love is a powerful motivation,” Benedict says, something in his voice that is almost _excitement_ – like this is a puzzle that he has solved, like this is a _game_. “And it does not fade,” Benedict continues, almost bouncing on his heels. “Especially not when it is spurned.” 

Henry pulls his hand from Benedict’s, steps away from him. “Have you forgotten,” he says, sharp and icy, “that _he_ was the one who left _me_ , Benedict? Hardly the actions of a man so consumed by his love for me that he would nurse that pain for _ten years_.” 

Benedict shakes his head, his movements quick and jerky. “Your sketchbook, Henry,” he says, and, oh, a sudden rush of shame sets Henry’s cheeks aflame. “You told me he saw it. He knew you cared for me before he left you.” He laughs, _exulting_ , and Henry is not a fool, he knows that all this frantic energy is born of fear, knows that Benedict is so brash, so lively because he believes that he has solved the problem, that he has fixed this – but every word is another dagger in Henry’s heart. Benedict is grinning. “It seems that it is not just the wrath of a spurned _woman_ that we should be wary of!” 

“Benedict, stop,” Anthony says quietly. 

“No, this is _good_ ,” Benedict explains, nodding furiously, and Henry looks away, down at the fine carpet beneath his boots, the embroidery of the cushioned chairs, the dance of flames in the hearth. “We can put a stop to this before it goes any further, _confront_ him!” 

“I think we have done enough for tonight,” Anthony says, careful and calm. “It has been a long, worrying day for all of us, I imagine. We should rejoin the ladies, eat and drink, and reconvene in the morning. Say, back here at nine o’clock? We will be able to better decide on a course of action with a night’s sleep under our belts.” He pauses, and when Henry looks up, Anthony has his brother pinned beneath his gaze. “Benedict, do you agree?”

“Very well,” Benedict says, no small trace of irritation in his voice. 

Anthony glances to Henry. “Granville?”

Henry nods, wordless. He can’t bring himself to speak. 

“Excellent,” Anthony says, clapping his hands. “I think it would be best to involve as few people as possible, so as to avoid worrying them – although I would imagine that Mrs Granville is already aware?” 

“She is,” Henry answers, his voice unexpectedly rough. “But she is discrete.” 

“I would not expect anything less,” Anthony agrees. “Now, Benedict, if you would, go let Simmons know that we are ready to dine.” It’s as formal as dismissal as Henry has ever heard. 

Benedict looks at Henry for a moment, opens his mouth as if to say something, but when Henry refuses to meet his gaze, he falters. “Of course,” he says, nods, and slips out of the study. 

The fire crackles merrily in the grate, casting glancing shadows across the walls. 

“Are you well, Granville?” Anthony asks, remarkably soft. “I do not know who this man is that my brother seems so intent on accusing, or what your history with him might be, but…” He trails off, grimaces. “I know how heartbreak can hurt,” he says. “I know how its memory can sting even so many years.” 

Henry manages a thin smile. “It is unpleasant,” he agrees. “Especially to be reminded of a point in my life where I did not act in all ways as a gentleman should. I caused a lot of pain, to Benedict _and_ to my… previous lover.” 

Anthony studies him. “From your expression, it seems like you also _experienced_ a lot of pain,” he says, oddly insightful, and Henry finds himself twisting under the keenness of his gaze. “I know you have others that you would perhaps turn to first,” Anthony says, flashing a lopsided grin, “but you are my family, too, Henry.” He hesitates. “My brother-in-law, so Benedict tells me. I am here if you need…” He frowns, groping for the right word. “If you need to talk to someone who understands,” he finally says, nodding. “I may not be like you and my brother in many ways, but some things, I believe, are universal.” 

“Thank you, Anthony,” Henry answers, his heart full of memory and regret. “I will remember that.” 

Anthony nods brusquely. “Good,” he says. “Shall we head to the dining room? I believe Cook has prepared an excellent beef wellington for us.” 

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Henry says, slipping back into the comfort of formal occasions and polite dinners. “I am _famished_.” 

Dinner is a somewhat strained affair to begin with. Anthony and Lucy take the majority of the burden of conversation, chivvying social niceties from a subdued Henry and a faintly irritated Benedict, but as the wine flows and the admittedly excellent food keeps coming, they all relax. Lady Marsden entertains with childhood anecdotes as Violet blushes and exclaims in protest, Miss Eloise regales them all with a short polemic on the latest legislation to come out of the House of Lords, and Lady Bridgerton provides entertainment in the form of gentle snipes at her husband throughout the evening, affection and love bright in her eyes.

Henry finds Benedict watching him across the table on occasion throughout the evening, but whenever their gazes meet, Henry has to look away. 

He and Lucy return home late that evening, so tired they are falling asleep in the carriage, but Henry is up early the next morning nonetheless. He presents himself at Grosvenor Square shortly before nine o’clock and is promptly escorted to the study. Anthony is already there, his expression pinched, and he greets Henry, gestures for him to sit, says, “We will wait for Benedict.” 

They make polite conversation, and wait. 

Nine o’clock comes and goes. 

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes the quarter of the hour. 

It strikes the half. 

“He is not usually this late,” Anthony says, his voice low and concerned. “I know he was drinking a fair amount last night, but he is no stranger to a hangover.” He pauses. “He should be here by now.” 

Henry’s chest is tight, his palms are sweaty. 

All he can think is, _An eye for an eye, Granville_.


End file.
